Sword in the Storm (9 page)

The brothers shared a meal of bread and honey washed down with cool water from a cold spring that trickled down the nearby rock face.

“You have been very quiet today,” said Conn, tipping a cup of water over his sweat-soaked red-gold hair.

For a moment Braefar was silent, and when he did speak, he did not look Conn in the eyes. “I think you like the foreigner more than you like me,” he said.

The comment surprised Conn. His half brother was never
one to complain and disliked emotional confrontations. Conn understood now why Braefar had seemed so distant these past weeks. “I’m sorry, Wing,” he said. “You are my brother, and I love you dearly. But Banouin knows much of the world. And I am eager to learn.”

“What is there that he can teach?” Braefar answered sourly. “We learn how to farm, how to ride, how to shoot, how to fight. We learn the great songs of the Rigante. What more will we need?”

Conn finished the last of his bread, then licked the honey from his fingers. “Do you know what a ‘soldier’ is?” he asked.

“A soldier? No.”

“It is a man who fights all year round.”

“Such a man is an idiot,” said Braefar. “Who works his farm while he fights? Who gathers his crops or feeds his animals?”

“He has no farm. He is paid in gold to fight wars. And because he has no farm, he does not have to return home in late summer to gather his crops. Banouin’s people have armies of soldiers.”

Braefar laughed. “They must be very bored in winter, when all their enemies have gone home.”

Conn shook his head. “Their enemies have no homes. For the soldiers follow them and kill them and take over their lands.”

“That is stupid,” said Braefar. “What can you do with land that is far away from yours?”

“Banouin says you force the surviving people to pay tributes to the conqueror. Gold, or corn, or timber, or cattle.”

“It still makes no sense,” insisted Braefar. “You can eat only so much bread. And cattle need wide grazing lands. If someone offered Father a thousand more cattle, he would refuse. There would not be enough grass for them.”

Conn chuckled. “It is complicated, and I do not fully understand it myself. But these armies of soldiers march into
a land and conquer it. The plunder they take is sent back to the cities of stone where their rulers live. With this plunder they create more armies of soldiers and conquer more lands. There they build more cities with great stone roads joining them.”

“Stone roads? You are making fun of me.”

“No,” said Conn. “Banouin says there is now a stone road in the land across the water that stretches for a hundred miles. And there are stone bridges built across rivers.”

“I don’t believe any of it,” scoffed Braefar. “Who would be crazy enough to build a stone road? And why?”

“So that wagons and armies can move faster.”

“I think he has fooled you, Conn,” said Braefar, rising. “Now let’s get back to work.”

“How is your hand?”

“It hurts, but it will hurt less when we have finished.”

Conn moved across to his brother and threw his arm around Braefar’s slender shoulder. “You are my brother and my best friend, Wing. And I will never let anything come between us.”

Braefar forced a smile. Banouin had left for his yearly trip south, and only now did Conn return to him. A cloud drifted across the sun, and the clearing was bathed in shadow. Braefar eased away from Conn’s embrace and returned to the saw. As they worked, he found his melancholy hard to shift. The last few years had been painful for him as he watched his father grow more bitter, his mother more distant. Now Conn had become attached to the foreigner, and Braefar felt bereft of friends. Especially after winning the solstice race: Govannan and his friends were not speaking to him.

The brothers labored for another two hours, then Braefar’s strength gave out. His arms felt as if they had been beaten with wooden sticks, and the joints of his shoulders burned. None of the other youngsters had stopped working, and Braefar had struggled on long after he should have stopped.
The saw moved ever more slowly. Finally he let go and stood shamefaced. Conn wiped sweat from his brow and clambered over the thick trunk.

“Sit down. I will massage your muscles.”

“I feel like a fool,” whispered Braefar.

“Nonsense. Most of the boys your size are gathering kindling. You have done a man’s work, and you have done it well.” Conn’s hands settled on his shoulders. Braefar tensed, but the touch was gentle, as was the slow kneading that followed.

A spattering of rain fell on the clearing, and the workers around them took a break. Braefar felt his irritation rise. If he had been able to last for a few more heartbeats, no one would have seen him fail.

On the hillside below he saw the village girls climbing toward them, carrying wicker baskets of food and jugs of apple juice. Conn’s fingers slowed still further, the kneading becoming distracted. Braefar glanced up. His brother was staring down at the girls. Braefar’s eyesight was not strong, and he could make out no individual faces. “Is she there?” he asked.

“Aye, she’s there,” whispered Conn, sitting down alongside him. As the girls approached, Braefar saw her. Arian was talking to her dark-haired sister, Gwydia, and both girls were laughing. The rain ceased, the sun breaking through the clouds. Arian’s yellow hair shone suddenly gold in the sunlight. It was like magic.

“She is so beautiful,” said Conn. Some of the girls moved to their brothers, others to sweethearts. The remainder gathered at the center of the clearing, laying down their baskets. Arian glanced coolly around the clearing, her gaze drifting over the two boys. Conn cursed. “She is still ignoring me.”

“Why would she do that?”

“I was supposed to meet her three days ago, but the Big Man heard there was wolf sign in the high pasture, and we
rode out to check. I was only an hour late, but she was not where we agreed to meet. Since then she has avoided me.”

“Shall we get some food?” asked Braefar, anxious to change the subject.

“No. I am not hungry.” Conn rose and wandered to the spring. As soon as he had gone, Arian and the dark-haired Gwydia strolled over.

“Your hand is bleeding,” said Gwydia, sitting down on the fallen trunk.

“It will heal,” Braefar told her. A swift shadow swept across the clearing. Braefar glanced up to see a crow swooping overhead. Opening its wings, the bird slowed its flight, settling on a high branch at the edge of the trees.

“It is waiting for any discarded crumbs,” said Arian. Lifting the linen cover from the basket, she took out a slice of apple cake and handed it to Braefar.

“That should be mine,” said Govannan, striding across the clearing. “Why are you giving away my food?” He was a tall, wide-shouldered, square-jawed young man with deep-set dark eyes that always looked angry.

“Gwydia has your food,” said Arian. “Meria asked me to carry this basket for Connavar and Wing.”

“Then my food should have been brought first,” said Govannan, snatching the basket from Gwydia. “Men should be fed before children. Is that not so, little Wing?”

Braefar tried a conciliatory smile. Govannan was two years older and considerably larger. He was also notoriously quick-tempered.

“Leave him alone,” said Gwydia, making Braefar’s heart sink. Why did girls never understand? Govannan
would
have left him alone, but now a female had intervened and he was obliged to continue.

“What have I said?” asked Govannan. “Was it anything but the truth? Look at him. He looks like a girl, and his poor little hand is bleeding.”

“Which shows how hard he has worked,” said Arian, her pale blue eyes growing angry.

Please be quiet, thought Braefar. You’re making everything worse!

“Perhaps I have wronged him,” said Govannan. “Perhaps he really is a little girl.”

Grabbing Braefar, he hauled him upright. His hands grabbed the waistband of Braefar’s leggings and dragged them down. Govannan laughed cruelly. “No, he is not a girl, but he has no man’s hair, either.” At that moment Govannan was spun around. Conn’s fist smashed into his cheekbone. Blood exploded from a cut on the cheekbone. Govannan was hurled from his feet. He rolled on the grass and pushed himself upright, fists clenched.

Then he charged. Conn sidestepped and sent a powerful left cross into his chin. Govannan went down again. He rose more slowly and advanced cautiously. Braefar, full of shame, hauled up his leggings and walked away. Gwydia ran alongside him.

“I apologize for my brother,” she said. “He really is an idiot sometimes.”

“You caused this, you fool!” stormed Braefar. “Now leave me alone.”

Back in the clearing Govannan had been knocked down four times, but still he came back. One eye was swollen almost shut, and his lips were bleeding. So far he had not landed a single blow. Conn hit him again, a straight left that jarred him to his boot heels. He swayed but did not fall. As suddenly as it had come, Conn’s anger evaporated. He stepped in, throwing his arms around his opponent. “This is enough, Van,” he said. “Give it up.”

Govannan butted Conn above the eye. Blood spurted, and he fell back. Govannan hit him with a right, then a left. Conn staggered, then whipped a ferocious uppercut into Govannan’s face, followed by a right cross that sent him sprawling again to
the grass. His strength all but gone, Govannan forced his arms beneath him and slowly came to his knees. Rising on trembling legs, he tottered forward and tried to throw a punch. As he did so, he fell. Conn caught him and lowered him to the ground. Arian and Gwydia knelt beside him, dabbing at his wounds with linen. Arian flashed an angry look at Conn. “You are a vicious bully,” she said.

Anger flared in Conn, but he did not respond. Instead he rose and stalked off into the woods.

Above him glided the black crow.

4

C
ONNAVAR’S
MOOD WAS
murderous as he walked, pushing aside dangling branches and forcing his way through the undergrowth. It was all Arian’s fault! She should not have ignored him. It was discourteous at the very least. That alone had caused his temper to spark. Then, when Govannan had shamed Wing, the spark had hit dry tinder and flared.

Emerging onto a narrow deer trail, Conn strode up the hillside, cutting right by a wall of rock and heading toward the Riguan Falls. A swim, he decided, would cool his temper. Blood dripped into his eye, and he pressed his fingers to the cut on his brow, applying pressure until the bleeding stopped.

Movement caught his eye at the edge of the trees, and he saw a black crow bank and drop toward the ground as if struck by an arrow. Intrigued, he swung to his left and pushed his way through the thinning undergrowth.

An old woman wrapped in an ancient green shawl was sitting in a gray wicker chair. Over her knees was a small fishing net, which she was repairing. Conn looked around for any sign of a house or cabin, but there was nothing. Perhaps she lived in one of the caves, he thought. It was surprising that he had not seen her before.

“Daan’s greetings,” he said.

She did not look up from her work. “May Taranis never smile upon you,” she replied, her voice dry and harsh. It was
an odd response, but Conn shared the sentiment. Who would want the god of death to smile upon him?

“May I fetch you water, old one?”

Her head came up, and he found himself looking into the darkest eyes he had ever seen, pupils and iris blending perfectly, her orbs like polished black pebbles. “I need no water, Connavar. But it was kind of you to ask.”

“How is it you know me?”

“I know many things. What is it you wish for?”

“I don’t understand you.”

“Of course you do,” she chided him, laying aside the net. “Every man has a secret wish. What is yours?”

He shrugged. “To be happy, perhaps. To have many strong sons and a handful of beautiful daughters. To live to be old and see my sons grow, and their sons.”

She laughed scornfully, the sound rasping like a saw through dead wood. “You have picked your wishes from the public barrel. These are not what your heart desires, Sword in the Storm.”

“Why have I never seen you before? Where do you live?”